


Mason Goes Shopping

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cordell being obsessed, Crack, Gen, Mason doing normal things, Shopping, but in short just crack, mason being mason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:38:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Cordell had spent the better part of the morning attempting to find out - without asking directly - what had been wrong with the shopping that had compelled Mason to this. Had he somehow neglected something Mason wants or needs, chosen the wrong mustard perhaps, forgotten some vital type of cookie that has his name already drawn through with a line? Mason had given no indication of wanting anything in particular, in all the ways that Cordell had tried to unearth the truth of it, but as they approach the grocery, Cordell is relieved that they are, in fact, going there, rather than the pig farm.</i>
</p><p>Because psychopaths doing normal things is just funny to us for some reason. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mason Goes Shopping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SLSmith22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLSmith22/gifts).



> They are younger, here, than canon, because we had the idea that if they knew each other before it would only get sicker and weirder and we had to have it.
> 
> For the incredible [SLSmith22](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SLSmith22), who we adore, and who requested this amazing nonsense :D we had the time of our lives, we hope you like it bb!

" _Why_? Are you asking _me_ why?"

"I'm not sure who else -"

"You're not _sure_. So you're _asking_. Asking _why_."

"That's - yes, that's exactly it - but it doesn't matter -"

"Then why are you _asking_?" Mason laughs, a bull-whip snap of sound that causes every muscle in his stalwart assistant to tighten white. He'll learn, someday, to know when to push and when to hold back with his employer, and with his dark eyes lifting towards the ceiling of the expensive car, he only hopes it happens before he ends up just another mysterious _dismissed_ in the Vergers' hiring ledger.

"Because," the younger man attempts, "because if you wanted to do this on your own, then isn't my being here an imposition on that freedom?" His tongue dives to wet dry lips, chapped nearly raw with the nervous gesture.

Mason cuts a corner sharply, and his mouth bends in a sneer when an oncoming car hits their brakes hard enough to squeal. He had insisted on this, too, rather than allow his assistant to do it for him. The young medical student grips his seatbelt like a lifeline, easing only when he finds Mason's watery blue gaze narrowed on him again.

"Mr. Verger, I only meant -"

"Cordell, Cordell, _Cordell_ ," sighs the older boy. "I have to have you _with_ me because - as _you_ seem to have _many_ \- I might have a _question_. And I'm not going to ask a _shopkeeper_ ," he sighs.

It seems reasonable enough, despite how unreasonably the morning had begun.

_I want to drive to the store, Cordell. I want to do the shopping._

Never had such a relatively simple desire cut through Cordell so sharply, reading judgment and lack of satisfaction in the tone, percolating it into a bubbling anxiety. _Of course, Mr. Verger. Which shopping suits your interest today?_

_Food. The market, Cordell, I wish to go to the food market._

It was all downhill from there, and Cordell had spent the better part of the morning attempting to find out - without asking directly - what had been wrong with the shopping that had compelled Mason to this. Had he somehow neglected something Mason wants or needs, chosen the wrong mustard perhaps, forgotten some vital type of cookie that has his name already drawn through with a line? Mason had given no indication of wanting anything in particular, in all the ways that Cordell had tried to unearth the truth of it, but as they approach the grocery, Cordell is relieved that they are, in fact, going there, rather than the pig farm.

He supposes, though, that if he had made such a grievous error as that, it would be an appropriate end.

“Here,” Cordell interjects gently, twisting fingers into his hair, eyes closed as Mason takes the turn sharp enough to nearly tilt the car to two wheels. “Just don’t -”

“Don’t _what_? Cordell, don’t _what_?”

“P-Park where there’s a handicapped symbol,” he breathes quickly. “You’re far from it, you’re far too capable to need a spot like that.”

Mason parks several spaces away from it, and Cordell hardly finds it in himself to correct his employer for taking up two, almost three spaces with his choice of parking position. It is early, mercifully early, perhaps no one will notice.

The hand brake groans as it's set and Cordell takes a breath, a brief flicker of eyes up and lips pressed together in gratitude to something, really, that allowed them to stay alive for the drive alone. He supposes it's a lot to ask for that luck to hold on his ill-fated mission.

"This is why I _like_ you, Cordell," Mason sighs, leaning comfortably back in his seat, gloved hands flexing over the wheel in contentment, the sound an odd comfort to the boy next to him in its familiarity. "So _eager_. But you _have_ to stop telling me things I know already. I need you for things I _don't_."

"Of course." A brief flicker of eyes, a darker, deeper iceberg blue than his master's, more treacherous in it, perhaps, another quick flick of Cordell's tongue against his lips and he undoes his seatbelt. Mason never bothered with one. He climbs out only after Mason does so first, locks the car with his own keys when Mason doesn’t bother.

The ground is steady under his feet, no risk of injury immediate apparent, and he hangs back to watch from the corners of his eyes when Mason stretches, already pleased with himself and the day’s accomplishment. He insisted on wearing the fur, though, and brings it up like a ruff of feathers around his face as he saunters towards the grocery, drawing a long passing look from an employee bringing in carts.

Cordell tugs his own ordinary black coat higher as if in mimicry, and meets the boy’s eyes, enough of a look that he doesn’t need to give another and the boy goes on his way. He follows a few steps behind Mason, enough that he doesn’t feel overburdened by Cordell’s presence, and ducks his head as if to make himself shorter, somehow, despite having over six inches on his employer. He starts to reach for a basket as they pass.

“Mr. Verger,” he murmurs, “if I can, what are you -”

“ _Questions_ ,” sighs Mason, voice twisting down into nearly a growl of warning.

Cordell presses his lips together, teeth driving into the soft membranes inside them to keep himself silenced. He takes a cart, instead of a basket, holds his breath in anticipation of a squeak, and could collapse in gratitude that there is none.

He walks at Mason’s pace, carefully enough coordinated and practiced in the movement for the stop-start to not cause a collision, arms folded to hide how white his fingers are against the handle as Mason Makes An Entrance - it can be nothing but capitalized - and declares that he will start with fresh produce. A deviation from the comfortable and usual rounds made but it would hardly be Mason Verger to begin at the beginning without complaint.

So they weave, or the cart does, as Mason parts the morning shoppers like the Red Sea and Cordell follows in his wake. He stops, a quick catch as Mason turns nearly into it, and raises his eyes, just waiting. No _questions_.

"Cordell.” A pause, consideration, as gloved fingers tap against Mason’s lips in quick staccato before they splay and he spreads his arms to encompass the large display of colorful vegetables in front of them. "There is so _much_ of it. Surely you don’t buy so _much_ when you go on your own. It's _wasteful_ to have it left behind."

"They lay out enough for -" Cordell swallows, anticipating the response and knowing the scene will be louder if he hesitates further. "- everyone."

“For _everyone_? But _why_?”

It’s quite a question, and Cordell considers his answer carefully. “Lots of people enjoy fresh produce, many different kinds.”

“But they could simply bring me what I _need_ rather than leave it all out here to _rot_.”

“I think it gets bought before then,” Cordell explains, watching the sweep of Mason’s coat as he pins his hands to his hips and surveys the multicolored textures of leafy greens and knotty purple root vegetables and shining fruit. “Besides,” he adds, a sudden fit of pique that flutters like a moth trapped under his skin, “who knows better what you need than you? You wouldn’t trust a _shopkeeper_ to pick out the best fruit for you, would you.”

A laugh, sharp, and unlike the one in the car, echoing through the space now, to still a few people in their path. Cordell just keeps his eyes forward, an expert, at least, in the false art of uncaring. You learn quickly to stop caring, working for Mason Verger, about anything.

"I would hardly trust a shopkeeper to be in his own _mind _, let alone _competent_ with so many products. A man must have a _purpose_ , Cordell, a _reason to be_. Someone with so many _options_ and _selections_ is absentminded and flitting. I would not trust his knowledge of _best_ any more than I would trust _yours_ ," Mason points out, stepping closer to bend and regard the apples. “But you _try_."__

__The backhanded praise curls Cordell’s shoulders and he sets one toe against the linoleum as he waits, says nothing, questions less. He tilts his head in a slow motion to watch as Mason scrutinizes the apples as he does people, less for their uniqueness and more for their value to him._ _

__Mason hums, a high note, rocks back onto his heels and straightens before sniffing in thought and turning to regard the entire store with something akin to disdain but allowance. It could be a worse response, perhaps will be, most likely will be, once they pass through recognizable products into the labyrinth of choices ahead of them._ _

__Cordell knows which apples Mason likes - the ones for himself, sliced always into neat portions, and the ones he feeds to the horses. His attention lingers on them, the sweet juicy Honeycrisps and the tart Granny Smiths, and as Mason wanders away from them, he wonders if it would be seen as amiss were he to buy the things that Mason doesn’t know he needs. It would save him another trip here later, when invariably, Mason’s desire turned to rage that what he _wants_ isn’t what he _has_. Would save shouting and strikes, a temper tantrum that would last the day._ _

__And perhaps, instead, spur one now for circumventing his imagined and immediate desires._ _

__He leaves the apples be, and pushes the empty cart behind Mason as he wanders towards the frozen section, and shivers dramatically._ _

__“It’s very _cold_ in here,” he complains, and in an instant, before he can stop himself, Cordell is seeking out a worker to raise the temperature. There are none, and they would not entertain the request anyway. Cordell swallows hard._ _

__“Frozen things,” he murmurs, as Mason comes to an abrupt stop and Cordell’s heart leaps into his throat, choking short his words. “They - it has to stay frozen. All of this.”_ _

__“What is that?” Cordell blinks, and follows the line of Mason’s arm to where he points with a gloved hand. “ _That_ , Cordell, what is _that_? It looks like - ha! - it looks like -”_ _

__The laughter rings loud enough to draw looks from the early shoppers nearby, already tactfully moving their carts aside for the wild-haired young man whose presence and gestures occupy the width of the aisle. Cordell leaves the empty cart to step closer, palms pressed together and fingers folded, and ducks lower to see into the case._ _

__“Corndogs,” he answers. “Hot dogs - ah, frankfurters. On sticks. Breaded.”_ _

__"And _frozen_?"_ _

__"So they last longer."_ _

__"If you want something to last longer, _Cordell_ , you give it patience. Take your time. Draw it _out_. You don't _freeze_ it, then it’s entirely useless."_ _

__Lips part, close, part again as Cordell swallows and starts to voice his agreement. Things that make plaintive little sounds and produce the tears Mason so enjoys in his martinis would not do well frozen, no. Entirely useless. So surely same rules apply, but Mason has already moved on, bored, here, as he had gotten quickly with the fruit. As he, perhaps, will, mercifully, with everything until they leave._ _

__Past milk - "Why is it _blue_ , Cordell, milk is not _blue_. The bottle is misleading." - and cheeses and yoghurt, towards the bakery and through that too. Nothing bought, nothing taken, yet the man’s whim to be _relatable_ , to be just like any _normal person_ , seems to be met quite easily. That, at least, is a relief._ _

__Until they reach the butchery._ _

__Cordell only just stops himself from making a pained sound as Mason stops. He hunches his shoulders, arms folded over the handle of the cart, as if perhaps he might make himself appear so small he could simply disappear. From beneath lank black hair he watches Mason’s eyes narrow in thought, his lips purse, and can only imagine what his employer is thinking. Certainly nothing good, not with that look, but Cordell remains perfectly still even as Mason leans close to him, near enough that his breath tickles his ear._ _

__“Reconnaissance,” Mason whispers, utterly gleeful as his pensive expression splits into a not-at-all-subtle grin. “Excuse me. Shopkeep.”_ _

__The man behind the counter glances back from the grinder, across his shoulder, and grunts. “Just a sec.”_ _

__Mason blinks, and looks to Cordell whose jaw falls slack. He closes it promptly and with Mason still watching him beseeching, starts to pull himself tall. Though it’s far from what he once thought his nature to be, he has learned to be imposing, to carry himself at his full lanky height, to speak in soft tones that carry importance in them without even needing to threaten. Cordell clears his throat, but to his surprise, it’s Mason who speaks again._ _

__“Shopkeep,” he drawls. “Butcher. I have a _question_ for you.”_ _

__“Nearly done.”_ _

__"You don't, really -" A sigh, put upon, entirely more dangerous than that and Cordell just watches in awe and fear both. He hopes Mason doesn't decide to test the depth of fat on the man with his knife. Surely not here._ _

__"Why is this entire place _obsessed_ with holding things on ice, it's _ghastly_ to think how it tastes after." The man continues to work, either unhearing or uncaring, and Mason presses his face to the glass display counter, glasses clicking against it as he frowns and sets his hand to it as well._ _

__"I misjudged people here, Cordell," Mason laments. "I thought them better than this. Smarter. Surely, smarter."_ _

__"What can I do ya for?"_ _

__The man’s finally turned back, wiping his hands on a towel absently before tossing it aside. Cordell blinks, Mason straightens to regard the man properly._ _

__"Pork," he says, answer and question enough, and the man gestures, absent and tired, with a shrug._ _

__"Best this side of town," the man boasts. “Did it up myself this morning. You looking for mince? Cuts? Pork belly?"_ _

__Cordell keeps his eyes trained on Mason, entirely at a loss now that the first interest he’s shown in actually buying groceries - however disingenuous - is for pork. As if there isn’t enough of it readily available, as if Mason hasn’t bred his personal stock to exacting standards, as if every piglet that he’s doted upon hasn’t wound up crackling on the dinner table._ _

__“Let me see the loin chop,” purrs the blonde, watching over the tops of his glasses as the butcher snaps on gloves and lays out a sheet of paper across the counter, dropping the heavy cut of pork for inspection. Mason lifts a brow and Cordell finds himself mimicking the motion, but not the one when Mason removes his knife from his pocket._ _

__He brings it nearer to the meat, but the butcher points and it’s all Cordell can do to fold his hands together and pray to whatever deity has seen fit to ease the trials of today that Mason’s tightened grip on his knife extends no further._ _

__“You know you gotta buy that if you cut it right? I can cut it for ya if ya need but you can’t just go around -”_ _

__Mason’s eyes are focused now, beyond the admittedly well-produced cut of pork. They hone in on the butcher’s hand, his thick arm, and Cordell finally intervenes._ _

__“This is one of yours, isn’t it, Mr. Verger?”_ _

__“Cordell -”_ _

__“Look,” the younger man continues. “You can tell by the marbling, the fat layered thick around its perimeter. This is a Verger Farms pig, isn’t it?”_ _

__The question is accompanied by a dire look, meeting the butcher’s gaze as he withdraws his hand. Some animal understanding, of threat and avoidance, the promise of fight and the flight to prevent it, and the butcher nods. “Sure is. Best around.”_ _

__“Well of course it _would be_ ,” Mason says, but his tone has lilted to a pout, now, like a child being denied candy before bed, he turns his head to regard the cut of meat, despite himself working through the process, despite his lack of attention to much of the detail in their own butchery, he knows, has been forced to know, and see and remember, over and over. “It’s _mine_.”_ _

__The butcher frowns, glances at Cordell who just closes his eyes very slowly and tilts his chin in an approximation of a headshake. Do not. It seems to come across well enough as Mason continues his displeased exploration of the meat. Then in a sudden motion that jerks both Cordell and the shopkeeper back, Mason stabs the knife into the loin and steps back, gesturing._ _

__“It’s been cut _wrong_ , entirely _wrong_ , Cordell, they’ve _butchered_ it.” A pause, a moment before the laughter starts, sharp and enough to raise hairs at the back of one’s neck, loud enough to give them a wide berth by anyone who passes by, though fewer do, now, taking the other aisles instead to avoid the strange man in his fur coat. The man behind the counter darts his eyes to Cordell again and the younger man just raises his eyebrows, contented to watch the discomfort crawl through him._ _

__“Sir,” he ventures, finds Mason’s attention entirely not on him even when addressed. “Sir, are you going to -”_ _

__“Why would I _buy_ this?” Mason snaps back. “Why would I _buy_ something I just _sold_ to _you_? Where is the _logic_ in that? Where is the - Cordell, why would he ask something so _stupid _? Are all people so _stupid_?”___ _

____“With very few exceptions,” Cordell answers, obediently, his implication clear enough to Mason even in his burgeoning mania. Praise has not worked to ease him, and so after a moment’s thought, tongue wetting dry lips, Cordell attempts his next best move instead - distraction. Mason would not hurt him in public, most likely, and if he did, it would hardly matter - they would be removed from the store and though Cordell would be forced to shop elsewhere, it would be a small price to pay for this to be over. “If you’ve had enough for today -”_ _ _ _

____“ _Have_ I? Cordell, you know me so _well_ , do _tell_ me if I’ve had _enough_ ,” he snarls, turning on the younger man who does little more than subtly avert his eyes, drawing up his shoulders. Submission, small movements, but with the effect of a dog rolling to bare his belly for an alpha._ _ _ _

____“Perhaps not,” answers Cordell, voice scarce above a whisper. “There are many more aisles -”_ _ _ _

____“Too many,” snorts Mason. “It is an _excess_ , all this food just going to _waste_.”_ _ _ _

____A flash of steel draws Cordell’s stomach inward, though the irony of being cut open in front of the butcher’s counter tugs at the sensation of a smile, but Mason simply folds and pockets the knife again. He turns, squinting against the fluorescent lights overhead, and wanders from the cut of pork, the man who butchered it, to an aisle selected seemingly at random._ _ _ _

____There is a moment, enough, that Cordell can turn back to the counter. He offers no apology to the man - it is Mason’s meat, after all, his hard work and skill that created it, Cordell thinks, though the true provenance of the pork is yet unknown. But he does slip twenty dollars across the counter when Mason isn’t looking, as silent thanks for the butcher’s cooperation._ _ _ _

____“ _Cordell!_ ”_ _ _ _

____“Coming,” flinches the younger man, taking up the still-empty cart to rattle safely behind his master._ _ _ _

____Where he finds him is enough to stop Cordell for a moment, cause him to consider, truly, if it is worth allowing a smile if it could potentially be extended to his ears. Permanently. Or if it is worth the moment more of Mason waiting so he can compose himself. He allows the moment. Yelling has been done enough around him that it hardly even raises an eyebrow anymore._ _ _ _

____He approaches Mason, who stands almost transfixed, within the aisle housing the toilet paper and paper towels, looking for all the world like a child entranced by an exotic animal._ _ _ _

____“Mr. Verger,” he prompts, careful, eyes up but head down for when Mason looks over, if he does._ _ _ _

____There is a long silence, Mason’s mind whirring behind bright blue eyes that dance across the myriad rolls, some plain, some decorated, some bundled in enormous bricks, some wrapped singly. Perhaps, Cordell considers, he’s never thought about where these things come from. More likely he’s never seen paper towels at all, used to linen napkins and other people - namely Cordell - mopping up his messes to ensure they remain unseen and stainless. Mason has certainly never had to buy such things before, never had to consider that they need replacing, that there isn’t simply one endless roll of toilet tissue so that he is never inconvenienced in even this most minor way._ _ _ _

____The thought of bleeding out across the butcher’s counter seems miles away now, and Cordell watches as transfixed by Mason’s otherworldly naivete - his most charming quality, and his most alien - as Mason is transfixed by the roll of toilet paper that he gingerly picks up in gloved hands._ _ _ _

____“Cordell,” he murmurs, and the younger man steps nearer, to allow Mason to keep his voice low, to not force him to raise it._ _ _ _

____“Mr. Verger,” he echoes, eyes flicking upward to study the youthful, almost angelic curves of Mason’s cheeks, his jaw, set now in pensive thought, the wild hair that stands tousled seemingly by will alone. “It’s -”_ _ _ _

____“I know what it _is_ ,” whispers Mason, gaze lifting above the rims of his glasses across the wall of paper products before him. “But there’s a very great _quantity_ of it, Cordell, there are _so many_.” He touches the brand name, points towards the boilerplate description of toilet paper, and regards Cordell from near enough that the younger man can feel breath, soft against his cheek. “What does this _mean_?”_ _ _ _

____Cordell swallows, a thick sound that he hears almost pulse in his ears before it’s gone, and he remains still, almost eerily so, so Mason doesn’t move. He licks his lips apart and considers the question._ _ _ _

____“The uh -” he can feel a smile tug his lips again and it takes conscious effort to stifle it down to nothing again. “- the ply suggests thickness and comfort of -”_ _ _ _

____“Comfort?” Mason sounds - almost frighteningly - genuinely fascinated by this fact. Turning the roll over and over in his hands before reaching for another, frowning when it’s the same, and seeking on a different shelf._ _ _ _

____“Softness, durability,” Cordell lists, and feels almost immediately when Mason takes the words and applies them to an entirely different scenario, an entirely different set of parameters, entirely different kind of product Mason considers a commodity. He watches as Mason turns to look for the cart before tossing the two rolls of choice into it, and winces._ _ _ _

____“Mr. Verger, I wouldn’t recommend -”_ _ _ _

____“ _What_ , Cordell, _what_ wouldn’t _you_ recommend?” Mason snaps, and Cordell shivers with the sensation of his spine straightening as if run through with screws, driven between his vertebrae with every popped consonant and sharpened edge of Mason’s words._ _ _ _

____“It’s just -”_ _ _ _

____“Cordell,” comes the warning drawl, but it only thickens his tongue further in his mouth._ _ _ _

____“M-Mr. Verger, I -”_ _ _ _

____“ _Cordell_ ,” Mason sighs longer, hands at his side, eyes towards the ceiling, and Cordell feels his shame burning hot in his cheeks as the leather of Mason’s gloves creaks into fists._ _ _ _

____“It’s only -” He sucks in a breath, and speaks in a rushed whisper. “The single ply is very thin, it requires much more to be used and is hardly as - ah - as sturdy and as t-tender as you prefer. As you prefer all things, Mason,” he breathes, a reminder, placed carefully, not in threat of what Cordell knows but in reminder that he does know, and still works in service for him, gratefully._ _ _ _

____Mason turns to him slowly, eyes just visible behind the glint of his glasses, above the snowy fur of his coat, and he squints. “So you would recommend _more_ ply.”_ _ _ _

____Biting back a correction as to toilet paper terminology, Cordell nods quickly. “A-At least two. Triple, if you can -”_ _ _ _

____“Of course I _can_ ,” huffs Mason, but he turns to regard the cart then, barren but for the two packages he’s put into it. “I _can_ if I want to. And I am _satisfied_ with my choice.”_ _ _ _

____It’s enough. It’s beyond enough. Cordell steps back again to take up the cart, no more than an acquiescing nod in doing so, and the knowledge that these packages will never see use, because Mason would surely have his hide for the discomfort if such a change was made. Mason strides almost proudly towards the doors, and Cordell watches wide eyed as he goes through them, out into the lot, and only once the doors slick closed does Cordell his a sharp curse beneath his breath and shuttle his cart into the checkout. The word draws a noise of dismay from a young mother nearby, who doesn’t dare do so again when Cordell levels her with a look._ _ _ _

____He does not meet the eyes of the pimpled kid who serves him, ignores the glance, the prying little look and hands over the money necessary. Two rolls. For the near-death experience that was the drive over here, that will be the drive back, that will be the shitstorm the man riles up once he realized that the things he _needs_ are not here _now_ , _why_ Cordell?_ _ _ _

____Why, Cordell._ _ _ _

____He sighs, rolls his shoulders in his coat and follows Mason out, toilet paper clutched against his chest and hoping, vainly, stupidly hoping, that no one has left a note on the car telling Mason to park better._ _ _ _

____He’s not sure he has the cash enough to pay off the entire lot when Mason makes a mess, and the one-ply won’t go far in soaking up the blood from the windscreen._ _ _ _


End file.
